


A Simple Cup of Tea

by bitchinachinashop



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2012-06-14
Packaged: 2017-11-07 17:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitchinachinashop/pseuds/bitchinachinashop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a short one-shot portrait of Holmes on the night before he met Watson for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Simple Cup of Tea

Sometimes in the early days of my career, I found myself pushing past the point of exhaustion for no particular scientific purpose. Perhaps I just wanted to see what it felt like, and observe what thoughts might creep into my head when the gates of wakefulness were down. It was the exercise of a bored mind, a mind with too much capacity and too little purpose- my purpose was yet to come, and even with my powers of reasoning I could not divine its full extent.

That night, I occupied myself with the observation of sensory details as a means to stave off sleep. In this case the scent of tea- camellia sinensis assamica- rising from the bowl of a single chipped china cup. The small, clinical voice at the back of my brain began immediately rattling off a list of Indian teas, both those native to the region and those imported from China. I let it run its course, but focussed the bulk of my attention on the real and present beverage. I had found that resting my thoughts on one particular subject and absorbing its reality as a whole often yielded better results than simply examining its individual characteristics.

The scent of the steam revealed to me the presence of a splash of milk (not cream, which would have had a heavier smell) but no sugar. Of course I knew this, having made the drink myself, but I pushed that knowledge aside and let the experience speak to me as if it belonged to someone else.

The leaves had been steeped at optimal temperature, but for slightly too long- about five and a quarter minutes, I estimated. The bowl of the cup was still hot enough to radiate its warmth into the handle as I lifted it, suggesting that it had been prepared quite recently. I paused to admire its bright amber hue before taking a slow, careful sip.

The malty flavour rolled past my tongue, carrying with it traces of its cultivation, blending, and journey from a subtropical homeland to an English port, and eventually to this particular brew. But there was something else, something far less tangible, an insight just out of reach. Seized by a sudden fierce emotion, I kept drinking breathlessly, frustrated by the feeling of a meaning I could not grasp. The scalding liquid bit at my tongue, overwhelming my sense of taste.

Draining the vessel of its last dregs, I flung it to the floor, where it unsatisfyingly refused to shatter. It lolled instead on the carpet for a few moments, empty and accusatory. I stared at it as if it were about to speak, and in a way I suppose it did.

It spoke of a cluttered room in a quiet dormitory, where a man prepared tea for himself alone. The unbroken silence, the whistle of a kettle, a page turning in an ink-stained book. A long, solitary night, one of many stretched before and after. And most poignantly, it spoke of the man mired in that night; a strange, shuttered man, waiting with dwindling patience for the chance to find a place in the world for his gifts- and himself.

**Author's Note:**

> For Anna, always.


End file.
